Wash the Names Out
by Beckon
Summary: It was almost odd how easily the human body could persist and preserve- and yet, on the same side of the coin, be so easily ripped apart


_"I'll find another way down- just keep going."_

Those words, meant to be reassuring and hopeful, had come back to haunt him now.

Joseph could feel them, those eight simple words, knotted and tangled in his throat- could feel how forceful they were to breathe through, making it difficult for him to concentrate on anything else going on around him. Struggled, stammered breaths partly wheezed between bloodied lips and clenched teeth, offsetting the tension that pulled tight underneath his skin. The tension that ached and grinded deep into his jaw- a growing case of whiplash that had steadily moved from his neck and up through his skull. It throbbed between his eyes, fluctuating white spots that crossed his already debilitating vision from time to time.

Then again, the struggle to breathe could've been from the hand around his throat, from the fingers partly digging into his already bruised skin. The tight grip squeezed hard enough that the small nicks from before, from greedy, barbed hands, began to spill blood again- cold, and barely moving in thin trickles down his neck.

He had found another way down.

Another way to continue through the belly of the building, another way through the hotel- torn, collapsing, and ruined by the flying bus act from before. Ruined by the multiple axises that spun the city around, ripping apart the roads, and tearing landmarks in half.

(All but one of them anyways).

(The light, the beacon, that drew everything to it).

Another way down.

Another way to meet up with Sebastian, two floors down from where they had initially crashed through brick, and sheetrock. Where they had watched as the bus tittered and crashed into the streets below, igniting upon impact. Where they had both silently prayed that Kidman had escaped somehow, some way, and that she wasn't down below, burning underneath the rubble.

What a cruel fate.

To finally be reunited, to finally have assurance that the three of them were alive, and mostly okay, only to be ripped apart again.

How naive, how reckless, and stupid he was to think that this world would give them such a break- that it would give _him_ a solid chance to breathe in relief. The only things this world had given him was a fresh bullet lodged in his side, and a mind half-decayed by madness. It turned him into a walking recipe for disaster. He was already two steps into death, two steps in the coffin, the last thing he needed was to be involved with a mid-air bus crash through the side of a hotel; to be once more separated from the only two people who could keep him sane.

This world only left him in more pain, with more broken bones, and more blood on his lips.

Joseph had moved a little too quickly, a little too relieved, towards the other Detective- more than glad not to be alone in this hellhole anymore. If anything because having someone else, having a partner, provided comfort, provided security. But it also provided closure. The likelihood of him dying here was quite obvious, quite possible, that much he couldn't deny. That much Joseph had near accepted at this point. But just because he had accepted it didn't mean that Sebastian or Kidman had. And if he were to drop dead in this shell of their city, he didn't... he didn't want to be alone.

He didn't want to leave behind questions, to leave behind an endless mystery of where he had gone off to, of when, or _if,_ he was going to come back.

He had worked in the policing business long enough to know that the greatest thing one could have in a shit situation was closure.

And at the very least, the other two deserved that.

...

He had spotted the bloodied bronze skin, and white eyes two seconds too late when he had approached the man.

He had felt the hand at his throat almost immediately, almost before his mind clicked that something was wrong.

At the very least, his dulled, empty senses helped to delay the disorienting pain of being thrown into the nearest wall. Not that that had given him any sort of advantage. All it gave him was a brief moment of clarity when he struck the wall, still able to feel the pain of the shockwave vibrating through his broken ribs and bruised spine.

All it gave him was a moment of level-headedness that warned him to run, to get as far away as possible.

It told him that he had been running on adrenaline and denial for so long, he could keep doing it; he could keep moving forward. No amount of broken bones, or blood on his lips could stop him- not if he wanted to live.

But the wishful thinking stopped there, a few mere seconds before the ringing in his head took over- before the rocketing snap of his head striking the wall silenced any voice of hope that might've managed to survive this long.

Joseph felt the weight of his arm, heavy and useless at his side; fingers half curled- grey and white in contrast, although invisible underneath his gloves, still slick with his own blood. The weight pulled tight at his shoulder, mutilated and carved open, barely still clinging together through ripped strings of flesh and tissue. He swore one could hear the subtle creak an old swinging bench might make in the afternoon breeze echoing from his shoulder; its socket broken and splintered apart.

He had seen the knife four seconds too late, just before its blade went easy into his non-fractured shoulder.

Just before the blade twisted and tore through muscles and tendons with ease. Before it ripped through him, undetected by his mind still reeling from the wreck, still piecing itself back together.

(Just before he realized that the blood spurting out from around the knife was because its blade had severed his subclavian artery in two- a precise, deliberate strike).

 _It was over._

He knew it was- he had known for a long time now.

"You were never going to survive here, Joseph."

Sebastian's voice, distorted and ragged with the words, was uncharacteristic, yet near fitting for the Detective. At least, in any other situation it might've been. A long night of work with no sleep and too much coffee. A long argument with the cops on scene who had, once again, walked through the crime scene and disturbed otherwise fresh evidence. Too many cigarettes in one hour, in one day- all necessary given the stress of the job, but not worth the smoke that clung to his shirt.

"You should've given up a long time ago."

Joseph didn't look to the man; he already knew that he wouldn't like what he saw.

Already knew that he would see himself in the image of the Detective in front of him.

That he would see himself in the knotted, mutilated veins that tore out through his bronze skin; sharp and contorted like barbed wire.

That he would see himself in the bloodshot eyes that reflected nothing but physical and mental anguish- that reflected the pure, unwanted loss of control.

That he would feel that same sinking feeling in his chest, in his gut- one that ran cold, that stung hot like the knife in his shoulder.

(Like the knife that was still now- a clattered, abandoned weapon on the floor at their feet).

 _... It should've been him._

This world, whatever it was, hated him the most.

No one else should have gone through the process of becoming one of those creatures.

Even as broken fingers clung to the mutilating wound of his shoulder, as Joseph felt his own skin and muscle peeling off underneath his blood-soaked shirt. As he felt the blood shooting out of his spliced artery, spilling easy through his fingers as they failed to find traction with the injury. As he felt another piece of skin come apart underneath his grasp every time he grabbed at his shoulder.

(If it wasn't for the wall behind him, he would've crumbled to the floor a long time ago).

He remembered Sebastian's promise of finding Kidman just before they separated.

And he prayed that the man didn't find her.

Prayed that she didn't... that she _wouldn't_ end up like him.

"Fuck you," Joseph whispered; his voice hoarse, and his throat so raw, and dry that it hurt to speak. "I wanted to give up... If it had been up to me... I would've put that bullet in my head- _ah_ \- a long time ago. But you... You would never let me."

At the asylum, at Beacon.

At the church.

Where each time Sebastian had forced him to keep it together- had near begged him to keep fighting.

And each time he wanted to give in, each time he felt his own skin clawing back at him, Joseph forced himself to think about Sebastian, to think about Kidman. To think about how they needed him. And even if they didn't, the lie alone was enough to pull him back out of the darkness. It was enough to give him something to fight for, to keep pushing for.

It was enough to win his sanity back...

But now, to hear those very words coming from the man himself, coming from Sebastian now- coming from this haunted, twisted doppelgänger.

He knew there was no sense in trying to talk the Haunted man down. There were no words, or actions that could be taken to change Sebastian back. None of which he was in any condition to do.

It wasn't like he would live for much longer anyways.

His lifeline was short enough as it was without the severed artery; this simply felt like a push in the right direction for him.

He could feel the churning taste of bile burning ulcers in his mouth.

"After everything we survived, everything we went through... Why are _you_ the one who gets to give up?"

Joseph's own words dug hard into him- ripping open old wounds in themselves.

He had been in that position before, he knew that there was no controlling it.

It was a constant turning, an endless cycle of self-fighting that only ended in exhaustion and bloody noses.

There was no 'giving up', or 'giving in' to it.

Just the breaking moment of being consumed by it.

Sebastian's grip on his neck loosened for a moment, and there was something in his eyes that seemed triggered by the words. That seemed triggered by the memories of the asylum, of the church, of the begging and pleading for him to keep fighting.

 _All for nothing._

It switched back to nothing in the man's eyes all in a simple blink, with another twist from the fucked up world in his head.

Fingers tightened against Joseph's neck, against his throat, once more- more forceful this time, anchoring him to the wall behind him. Keeping him in place even though it wasn't like it mattered. What was he going to do? Run away? And go where exactly? The city was torn apart, and those creatures had flooded every nook and cranny there was amongst the cracked and broken streets.

And with the physical condition that he was in, it wasn't like he would get far.

Joseph felt fingers touch at the blood-soaked bandages that were packed against his side, the same bandages that Sebastian himself had put together to stop him from bleeding out in the back of the bus. He felt fingers rip into them without hesitation, pulling the medical padding off to expose the two-hour fresh bullet wound that had crippled his exploration of the hotel.

That one that still crippled him even now.

Fingers pulled it all away, ripping the layers off in one firm tug, before they dug in.

Before the bullet wound, a small puncture of an entry point, was ripped open and apart.

Before skin was peeled back as fingers dug in and raked back out, stripping it all from the muscle that was soon coming out in tangled strings and ribbons in Sebastian's hand.

(It was almost odd how easily the human body could persist and preserve- and yet, on the same side of the coin, be so easily ripped apart).

Joseph could feel the motions, the tugging, the jerking, the _digging_ , but the pain wasn't entirely there. The receptors in his brain and the nerves of his wound had both died some time before, rotting away and sparing him that much at least. Sparing him the feeling of flesh and muscle giving away to veins and arteries that were plucked and played like strings between bruised, bleeding fingers.

And then to still warm organs that were grabbed by the handful and pulled out- strung easily between his open stomach and the Detective's clenched hand.

There was a sense of uneasiness, a sense of physical emptiness that washed over him- washing over like the chill of his own blood spilling out through his stomach.

No longer warm, no longer needed.

But Joseph knew what little he was feeling, what little his mind could make of it, was nothing compared to the agony that the Detective was in. To the agony of twisted barbed wire under his skin, knotted and churning through his own organs, splicing him apart from the inside.

 _"... I'm sorry."_


End file.
